


Sojourners of a Feather

by iysabeau



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan Lives, Canon Compliant, I'd say slow burn but this fic won't be too long, M/M, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, another arthur lives fic, in which it becomes, until the end of the game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22674535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iysabeau/pseuds/iysabeau
Summary: Arthur thought he was dead- he was certain he was dead; therefore, when he woke up, alive, with Charles' concerned gaze upon him he had some questions. The path to heal after everything that happened wasn't a short one, but one they would take together.!!!!!Being rewritten!!!!
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 8
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

Sensations began to creep into Arthur’s limbs; it spreads like the burn of whiskey in the back of one’s throat, moving through his chest to his arm to his finger tips. There was a woolen blanket, warmth, the tap-tap of someone’s fingers against wood. He couldn’t open his eyes, in fact he wasn’t even sure of his consciousness. Was he awake, or was this simply the last bit of life fighting within him flaring to the surface before ebbing? He let the feeling take him, falling back into the silence of sleep.

_ Tap-tap-  _ the sound returned, and Arthur became increasingly aware of the existence of the sound. If this was death, it sure was annoying. He pushed through his fingers, trying to will them to move. He felt heavy, like lead, but managed to wiggle his index finger. 

The tapping stopped. He moved his index finger again, paused, and then did the same to his middle. He heard a shuffle next to him, the sound of someone standing hastily. A pressure wrapped around his fingers- someone else’s hand.

“Arthur,” said a voice, soft and gruff and familiar. “Come on, Arthur.”  
A feather-light touch brushed against his temple and trails down to cup his cheek. Calloused palms, gentle touches, big hands. Charles.

“Charles,” Arthur said, voice no more than a quiet rasp. It hurt to speak, as if he hadn’t spoken in months and his vocal chords have rusted shut.

The hand on his fingers tightened and Charles’ voice rose slightly, with excitement, “Arthur.” 

Arthur opened his eyes. He cracked them open vision blurry and unable to focus. The room came into focus, mostly dark, luckily, dimly lit by a lantern. Charles hovered above him, scruffy and unkempt, as if he hasn’t slept or taken much time to himself. He was dressed for cold weather and was wrapped up in a scarf and a thick furred coat. His eyes were filled with concern: eyebrows furrowed and red from exhaustion. 

“Where-” Arthur began, coughing painfully, “Where are we?”

“Canada.” Charles was shaking slightly; Arthur could feel it in his grip, “With the Wapiti.”

“The Wapiti?”

Charles looked past him for a moment as if he were deep in thought. After a moment of silence he responded, softly, “Yeah. It’s the safest place for them.”

“How did you-”

“Find you? News reached me fast,” Charles slipped his hand out of Arthur’s and ran his hands over his face, pushing back through his hair. He rested his head in his hands, “I expected to find you dead.”

Arthur exhaled- a soft, weak laugh, “There’s still hope for that.”

“Hush,” Charles looked back up at him, “We’ve spent this long keeping you alive, don’t make it be a waste.” He leaned back in his chair, his back cracking as he did so. Stiff, as if he had been hunched over Arthur’s bed for too long. “Tuberculosis isn’t necessarily a death sentence.”

“Are you sure about that? ‘Cause I certainly feel like it’s a death sentence.”

“A couple of the elders told me that people have coughed blood like you and survived.”

“That don’t mean it was tuberculosis,” Arthur tried to prop himself up on his elbow but couldn’t find the strength to do so. “‘Coulda just been sick.”

“You will survive. You’ve been through so much, it sped up your illness.”

Arthur’s eyes felt heavy and sleep began to weigh heavy on his body. “If you say so,” he said, mumbling, head lolling to one side.

“Sleep, Arthur,” Charles stood, brushing his fingertips through Arthur’s damp hair. “Sleep.”

Arthur did, and when he woke up again, the room was empty and brighter than before. The wood walls were a warm brown- a simple cabin- and light crept through the space between the curtained windows. A beam fell on Arthur’s hand and he turned his hand over so that the light was on his palm. He studied it for a moment, wondering how the hell he was still alive. Perhaps, for the first time in a while, he was having a stroke of luck. Just perhaps.

He watched the dust particles float across the move, caught in the sunlight. He planted his hands on the side, pushing himself up so that he was sitting against the wall the bed was pushed against. His arms strained with the lack of use: tight, stiff, and burning. He wasn’t in pain necessarily, not in the traditional sense, and instead felt like his limbs were hot and numb. He was hit with a wave of lightheadedness, most certainly a side effect from sleeping for so long. 

The door opened- the bright white from outside blinding Arthur briefly- and Charles stepped in with a bowl of  _ something _ , shaking snow off his boots. “You are up,” he said, sounding surprised.

“Barely,” Arthur grunted, tilting his neck, feeling his joints and muscle creak and strain. 

“Barely is better than nothing.” Charles sat down in the chair he was in before, handing Arthur the bowl, “I’m happy to see you sitting up.”

“Yeah, well, I figured I couldn’t lay here forever,” Arthur said, taking the bowl. “What’s this?”

“Soup. Eat it, you need energy to heal.”

Arthur didn’t need to be told twice, as he was starving. He questioned Charles through mouthfuls, “How long has it been?”

“A week or so,” Charles said, “You woke up a couple times and ate a bit, but you were barely conscious.”

“Yeah, I don’t remember that at all.” Arthur gulped the last bit of soup down, putting the bowl on the side table. “I remember you sitting here, though.”

“I’ve sat here a lot.”

“Ah, well, I mean last time.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, simply enjoying each other’s presence. The quiet was long needed after the past months with the gang. Something necessary after all the death, and the fighting, and the pain. Slowly- very slowly- Charles leaned closer to Arthur so that his forehead was resting against his shoulder. 

Arthur never considered himself touchy, but he was far from opposed to the physical intimacy and warmth of another person’s touch. Charles had embraced him several times before, and this time Arthur couldn’t help but initiate it. He reached out, wrapping his arms, so much more thin than they had once been, around Charles’ broad shoulders. He pulled him down so he could bury his face in Charles’ neck. Charles relaxed into the touch, sighing as he enveloped Arthur in a hug. Had he not had the scarf on, Charles would be able to feel Arthur’s breath against his neck, the warm tremble of his exhale contrasting the cold sweat on his brow, and the soft tickle of his hair. 

“God, I must stink,” Arthur said, half grumbling half chuckling. 

The blood and dirt from his fight with Micah had been seemingly wiped off, but he was certain the smell of teetering on the edge of death lingered on his skin and union suit which was pulled down to reveal the dressings on his chest. 

“You do,” Charles agreed, still holding Arthur, “but you should wait until you have regained more strength.”

“And when will that be, doc?” 

“The _ Pejuta  _ _ Wiċasa  _ said that your ribs have breaks as well,” Charles explained, pulling away but leaving his hands on Arthur’s arms. “You should ask him when he comes in later today.”

“The what now?”

“ _ Pejuta  _ _ Wiċasa _ ,” Charles repeated, “He is like a doctor. A medicine man. You should be thanking him for keeping you alive.” Charles began to stand.

“I’ll remember that,” Arthur murmured. He grabbed Charles’ arm, “Thank you, too.”

“You aren’t out of the woods yet.”

“I know, I know,” Arthur paused, “but thank you.” 

Charles clapped him on the shoulder, gently as to not hurt him, “Of course, Arthur.”

The  _ Pejuta  _ _ Wiċasa  _ was a suprisingly young man, a little older than Eagle Flies was. Despite his age, his face was lined with stress. He was tired as well, bearing similar dark circles under his eyes as Charles had. 

“You look better,” he said.

“Well, I don’t feel like I’m more dead than alive, if that is anything.”

The  _ Pejuta  _ _ Wiċasa  _ forced a smile, “You would have been dead if not for Charles.”

“So he tells me,” Arthur said, wincing as The  _ Pejuta  _ _ Wiċasa  _ gingerly felt his ribs and jaw. “You know, you are awfully young to be the doctor of these people.”

The  _ Pejuta  _ _ Wiċasa  _ unwrapped some of the dressings on Arthur’s arm and chest, dabbing the wounds with some herbal mixture and rewrapping them. “My father was the last  ‘doctor.’ He is dead now. Killed by Favours men.” His words were sharp and stung with pain.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur attempted.

“Don’t be. It wasn’t you’re doing.”

Arthur knew that was true, yet he couldn’t help but wonder if Dutch’s interference with the Wapiti may have lead to the young man losing his father. The thought of Dutch made his stomach turn and he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to erase the thought from his head.

“Are you okay?”

Arthur opened his eyes, looking at the  _ Pejuta  _ _ Wiċasa _ , “Yeah, son, I’m okay. Say, when do you figure I can try moving around?”

“You shouldn’t, really. Your ailment is a very serious matter.”

“Alright, I hear you, but I don’t mean anything strenuous. I was just thinking ‘bout taking a bath.”

“Ah, in that case, yes, feel free. Just have someone help you. It would be a shame if you fainted in the bath and drowned.”

How blunt, Arthur thought. “Yeah, no worries. Thank you for everything.”

“Of course, Mr. Morgan. Do you need anything else?”

“Nah, Charles is taking good care of me.”

The  _ Pejuta  _ _ Wiċasa  _ smiled, “I’m not surprised.”

Arthur didn’t have much time to process what the young  _ Pejuta  _ _ Wiċasa  _ said, as Charles walked in as soon as the boy had left. He took the scarf off as he stepped in, hanging it on the hat hanger next to the door. 

“You know what this reminds me of?” Charles asked, rekindling the fireplace’s embers. 

“What?”

“When we were stranded in Colter after Blackwater.” Instead of sitting on the chair, Charles sat on the edge of the bed, handing Arthur a waterskin. 

Arthur took it graciously, “Don’t remind me. I haven’t seen anything outside of this room, but I can assume that it’s awful.”

“To be honest, it is a lot better than that. It’s far enough from the border that the people don’t have to worry about the U.S. Army, and the cabins are in decent shape. The locals have been surprisingly understanding as well.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Have they now?”

Charles nodded, “They can’t stay here forever, though.” He leaned back so that he was laying next to Arthur; a slight moment of relaxation that he had long deserved. “Once you are well enough, we will continue until we can find land where they can settle.”

“And then what?”

“And then we will figure it out from there.”

We. Them, together. The way Charles spoke hinted that he intended on staying by Arthur’s side, provided he survives this ordeal. Arthur could barely remember a time without the Van der Linde Gang. His teens and young adulthood were swept away by Dutch and Hosea, and despite how it all turned out, he couldn’t say he regretted it. Even when he was with Mary, the gang was right behind him. They were his family and despite Charles having been a new addition, Arthur was incredibly thankful to still have some of that family.

“You okay, Arthur?” Charles was looking at him, head tilted with concern. 

“Yeah, just thinking,” Arthur said, “you know how it is.” 

He patted Charles’ hand, reassuring him that he was, infact, okay. On the last pat, he let his hand lay on top of Charles’ for a second, giving it a squeeze. He then remembered the question he had been meaning to ask Charles. 

“Say, Charles, the kid said I can bathe and,” Arthur trailed off, “Well he told me not to do so alone. Fears I may drown or something. And I don’t want to overstep any boundaries, ‘cause we both know you ain’t no bathmaid-”

“Arthur, you’re sick, of course I’ll help you,” Charles sat up, scoffing at the notion that Arthur’s request would upset him in some way. “I’ll warm up some water and make a bath for you.” He stood, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his strong forearms, and began to heat the water.”

“Thank you.”

Charles glanced back at him, “Of course, Arthur.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it takes me so long to post, I go to school and work ;;

Undressing was painful as his body was still sore and aching. Arthur was much too proud to ask for help on such a simple task like unbuttoning the rest of his union suit; even if it wasn’t pride, he felt oddly embarrassed to ask Charles to do anymore for him. He stood, shakily, with Charles’ help. Charles kept his gaze distant, looking towards the tub, allowing Arthur to have his privacy. He wrapped his arm around Arthur's waist, careful to avoid his ribs, and helped lift him into the tub. 

The water stung Arthur’s toes- it was that burning feeling of warmth spreading through cold limbs too fast- it felt like peace. It felt like peace in contrast to the feeling of his lungs heaving as he tried to breath as Micah’s fists struck him. The feeling of dirt, wet and sticky with blood, splattered on his skin. Dutch looming over him, confused and hurt and so far from the man he once was. When compared, the water certainly was a calmness unlike any he had felt in a long time.

The water had a thick layer of suds covering the surface completely concealing Arthur’s body like fresh snow. He attempted to lift his arms to wash his hair yet was met with a shooting pain through his side. 

Charles noticed Arthur’s twisted grimace and scrunched eyebrows and asked, “Do you need help?”

“I don’t wanna ask that of you,” Arthur pushed through the pain, eyes watering as he strained to scrub his head. 

Charles gently moved Arthur’s hands down, “Nonsense. You don’t want to hurt yourself more.”

Charles ran his fingers through Arthur’s soap covered hair, softly scratching and massaging his scalp. Arthur’s head lolled back as he relaxed into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. As Charles neared his temple, rubbing soft circles into Arthur’s skin, he allowed his fingers to wander down to his scruffy jaw. His touch turned into a lingering caress and Charles took the moment to study Arthur’s face. 

He was still sickly and pale and the darks under his eyes puffy and purple. Cuts littered his face, still healing. His lips remained slightly swollen yet pinker with fresh blood flow than they had been days prior. Freckles were scattered on his face, barely noticeable, like sawdust from freshly cut wood. As Charles brushed over them, Arthur’s eyes opened again- blue green with a sunflower golden center. 

They were silent for several seconds, memorizing each other’s faces, studying the history etched onto the other’s skin. Arthur’s hand lifted out of the water, bubbles clinging to his skin, and Charles took it reflexively. He leaned his forehead against Arthur’s, lacing their fingers together. They continued to stay like that for many minutes before being broken by the rumble of Arthur’s stomach. 

“I’ll get you some food, are you ready to get out?” Charles said.

“Yeah,” Arthur lifted his arm, allowing Charles to put his arm under it and lift him out of the tub. “Ya’ know what?”

“Hm?”

“Bring some alcohol with you, let’s drink tonight. Just you and me: the remaining members of the Van Der Linde Gang.”

“I don’t think I want to be considered part of any gang anymore,” Charles replied honestly. 

“I don’t blame you.” Arthur wrapped a towel around his waist as Charles lowered him to sit on the bed. “Maybe now it is just best to be ourselves.”

“I agree.”

Charles returned later with whiskey and beer and some solid food: deer and some leafy greens. Arthur scarfed down the food as if he hadn’t eaten for years. 

“Careful you will choke,” Charles warned, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder to slow him. 

“I’m starving.”

“That’s good, appetite is a sign of healing, but I rather you not get sick from eating too fast.”

Arthur ate slower, the sound of his fork occasionally scraping the bottom of the plate. He still was gruesomely thin and feeble, so much of his muscle definition had faded with his illness, but the color had returned to his cheeks. He looked a little less lifeless- a little more  _ alive _ . He swallowed down the last bit of food before taking a bottle of whiskey.

Charles took his own bottle, “Cheers, Arthur.”

Arthur thought for a moment, “To us and all the other stupid bastards who got mixed up into this.”

“To  _ us _ ,” Charles repeated. 

They drank. They continued to drink until life’s heaviness was lifted. Being drunk wasn’t common for either Charles, yet in times of celebration, he wasn’t opposed to indulging. To him, to both of them in this moment, life was enough of a cause for celebration.

Charles had always appreciated Arthur’s looks. Even when he was bullheaded, he had his face to make up for it. Charles found that it was impossible to stay wary of Arthur for long after he joined the gang. He liked his messy dirty blonde hair and his pretty eyes and his smile-not his fake, teasing smile- but his real, genuine smile. The smile that crept out when he sung horribly off beat at the campfire. The smile he thought no one could see in the dark of the night when everyone’s vision is clouded by alcohol and the bright beacon of the campfire. Charles always noticed those smiles.

Arthur’s body was warm, not feverish like he had been, but a pleasant heat. He leaned against Charles, head hanging slightly as he chuckled to himself. He was drunk, or at least very tipsy. Charles drained his bottle, wishing to be on the same level of intoxication induced stupor as Arthur. The alcohol had stopped burning many swigs ago and now felt like a pleasant tingle-a spark; Arthur’s arm, however, pressed flush against him felt like a flame. 

Charles wasn’t sure who initiated it, but at some point, between the waves of Arthur’s heat and the sparks in his throat and chest as he drank, they had become entangled. Laughing in a heap of limbs and empty bottles. 

Arthur moved like he was weighed down by rocks. He lifted his arm and let it fall over Charles’ broad chest. It landed heavily and probably would have winded Charles if he wasn’t numbed by the whiskey. He pulled himself onto Charles, swaying as he propped himself up to look down at him. His breath was heavy and smelt of alcohol, his cracked lips parted slightly. It probably shouldn’t have been an attractive sight. After all, Arthur’s eyes were still darkened with bags and his cheeks were gaunt from the weight lost. Despite this, he was undeniably and irresistibly attractive to Charles.

And in that moment, as they stared at each other like no one else in the world mattered, they let the moment and the alcohol take control of them. They pressed themselves together, joined in a kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> The language used for the Wapiti is Lakota (just like in game).  
> I replayed RDR2 and am feeling these two again.


End file.
